Thunderstorm
by Listerly
Summary: The idea for this story came to me in one of those sudden ideas where you don't even go along that train of thought, the idea is just there all of a sudden, half formed and raw with potential. It literally came to me in a flash as quick as lightning (so cliche) and so I named and threw in that theme a little appropriately so. Clintasha. Rated T. Reviews are always welcome.
1. Chapter 1

Natasha really did feel like there was only one word for this situation.

"Fuck."

She normally did try to keep her swearing down to a minimum. Well, yes, she had no problem with swearing and often swore herself, but she reserved 'fuck' for situations that truly called for it. And this situation definitely qualified.

Firebombs. Burning buildings. Land mines. Thousands of trapped civilians. Unknown whereabouts of partner. Running low on ammunition. No backup or communication with SHIELD. Raging thunderstorm with full blown lightning and ear-shattering crashes of thunder that sound like they're directly over your head. No rain, and the electricity that charged the air from the abundant lightning just made the fires worse. Definitely a 'fuck' situation.

She peered around the edge of the wall she had her back up against, basically wall-sitting against. Funny how that worked. She hated wall sitting and while she did so with Clint under his insistence she often complained that she was never going to do so out on the field. If only he could see her now. The wall- well, really, a six foot tall wedge of cement blocks and mortar that had survived this shitfest- was rough and the uneven concrete snagged her catsuit.

It was multiple stories tall, and the whole thing was up in flames. Well and truly past any salvation. It had housed several hundred people, and even now she could hear their screams, a dying, wailing chorus of the damned. She could see black figures silhouetted by the fire leaping from the windows that had ten foot tongues of flame arcing out of them like solar flares on the sun.

Explosions from the hundreds of land mines strategically planted around the city rocked the ground, sending tremors up her legs.

The city was basically reduced to rubble, including the cement wall she was crouched behind.

And most importantly, she didn't know where Clint was.

She had _never_ lost Clint during a mission. Not ever. But when everything went to heck in a hand basket. they were both unprepared. This was supposed to be a simple, no a _boring _crappy surveillance detail. The only thing that had saved their asses was their paranoia. She had brought her bracelets out of paranoid habit, and the same went for him and his bow and his special gear he had made himself. Natasha had discovered about seven months into her time at SHIELD that he actually was quite a nerd, and unlike her, did not just vent or distract himself through training. He made and prototyped all of his arrows, his bow, and some _very_ nice body armor that he had the forethought to bring on this mission. It was shockingly light, more bullet-proof then Kevlar, and went almost completely undetectable under his clothes. If Natasha didn't know him- physically and mentally- better than she knew herself, she wouldn't be able to tell.

So she thanked whoever had made him so geeky for the thousandth time, and cursed his name and his tendencies to find a high place. She groaned under her breath. Snipers.

He had gone up as high as he could get to fully utilize his bow and to be in his comfort zone. And now all of the building were blown up. She knew he had escaped, but she was going to kick his ass later for scaring her, because in the back of her mind the voice of Natalia wondered if he'd been blown up in a rather malicious way.

But she had to concentrate on keeping herself alive now.

Wildfires had broken out throughout the city. A city chock-full of civilians. Crap. She sprinted towards the burning building. She gripped her favorite nine millimeter pistol in her hand for comfort. She reached the main entrance and had to squint from the heat radiating off the building. She shot the lock off the door and kicked it open, not wanting to touch the door for fear of getting burned. Of all the ways she had pain inflicted over her life, getting a burn was the one that she just squirmed inwardly at the thought.

She tooth a deep breath and ran into the burning building.

The heat nearly overpowered her. It seared her throat and lungs, and she could almost feel her face blistering. Nevertheless, she ran to the nearest room and kicked open the door. She stepped into the room, and a sob almost choked her throat when she saw the remains of two people lying together on a bed embracing, still asleep, never seeing the firebombs coming.

She ran to the next room and threw open the door. There, huddled on the floor were three crying children. A small boy, probably two years old, hair so dark it was almost black, stormy blue eyes distorted with tears that were streaming down his face as he crouched next to his dead mother and held her hand. His older sister who was probably four, with long curly brown hair and blue eyes that matched her brothers held and cried with him uncontrollably. But what really touched Natasha was the oldest boy, probably ten, with sandy hair and stormy gray eyes who held both of them with a sorrowful look on his face. He was clearly grieving over his dead mother, but he held back the tears. He looked up at her with relief, and when Natasha came over to them, he surrendered his sister to her and picked up his baby brother, who simply buried his face in his shoulder.

They ran out and Natasha set the little girl down on the ground and wiped her eyes and told her urgently, "I know, I'm sorry, I've lost people too." The little girl looked at her with tears in her eyes. She sniffed and another tear ran down her cheek. Natasha wiped it away.

"Listen to me honey, I need you to go with your brothers. I need you to be strong and help your older brother, okay?" The little girl nodded tearfully. "There'll be plenty of time for crying later, but right now I need you to be tough and take your brothers and run. You gotta be tough. Promise me?" Natasha urgently spoke in a low, soothing voice. The little girl nodded again and threw her arms around Natasha. After a surprised moment, Natasha hugged her back tightly. The little girl went and picked up her brother in her arms. The oldest boy turned to her and said in a low, gravelly voice, "Thank you." Natasha stared at him. "What's your name?" she asked faintly. He looked her over, then said, "Barney Anderson," and he went and took his younger brother from his sister, took her hand, and the three ran off in to the darkness towards safety.

Natasha felt like she couldn't breathe. The stormy gray eyes and the sandy hair and the rough voice and the name Barney... The little boy got a dead ringer for Clint... And Barney was his brother's name...

She ran back to the building.

Over the course of the next twenty minutes, Natasha made countless rescues, making it to floor thirty before the building collapsed and she couldn't go in any more. She could feel her face burned simply from the heat and she had numerous burns all across her body, especially one on her ribs that worried her.

She went on through several collapsed buildings and sent them all into the woods nearby. In the last building that was as safe as possible for her to enter, she sent the last young woman out, who turned and hugged her and cried as she ran away to the woods. The woman was an attractive blond who was handling this very well, all things considered. Natasha stood there in shock and felt and felt a genuine smile spread across her face as she thought of all the people she saved. She stood and folded her hands and smiled quietly in the shell of the building, almost all the fires having burned themselves out now, the sun rising staining the sky white and pink and orange with little bits of blue shyly peeking out.

And then the final mine rocked her building, collapsing it on top of her. One moment Natasha was relieved and- dare she think it- happy, and the next, she's pinned under four large, charred support beams and coughing on stirred up ash. She coughed on the ash for about a minute or so, then finally sat up as best as she could, all things considered. "Course not," she muttered to herself under her breath. "Why should I be allowed a moment to revel in what little good I've been able to do? That's ridiculous."

She shifted, and tried to pull her left leg out from under a beam.

She hissed and forced down a small yelp. "And that's either broken or severely gashed," she announced to no one.

Natasha slowly tested each muscle group, and found that other than her burns and leg, she was perfectly okay. So she sat back against the rubble and glared murderously at nothing in particular. She hated waiting, hated being trapped and vulnerable like this, though she was perfectly okay with being alone. She cleaned both of her guns and cleared the ash and grime out of her bracelet's external panels as best as she could. She even got out her extra gun- which she hadn't even needed in years- and checked to make sure it was loaded and the safety was on and it was clean, which was pointless because when you're a professional like her, you don't forget to keep your weapons loaded, safe, and cleaned. Ever.

She sat back and sighed hard, letting her lips puff out with the force of her breath. And of course, like whenever she was stuck with nothing to do, she began to worry. One of Natasha's biggest pet peeves with herself is that she was a natural worry wart, as Clint would put it.

Did everybody she saved make it out okay?

Were they rescues from the woods by SHIELD?

Where was Clint?

Was he injured?

Did he explosions get him?

Would he rescue her?

That brought Natasha up short. She couldn't even believe she thought that. She was the _Black Widow_ for crying out loud! Since when does she need rescuing, even in a situation like this? Especially from _Clint_. He's basically a child in a (very, very toned) man's body with incredible skills and leadership qualities and excels at what he does and is the best professional she know's and her only certainty in this life and the only person she trusts with all of her being and is the person who she goes to at two in the morning when she has a nightmare and-

She just really hopes he's okay.


	2. Chapter 2

Meanwhile, Clint was having a bad day. First, it quickly became clear using his bow was probably not the ideal weapon for this kind of fight. Second, all of the tall buildings were blow up so he couldn't use his sniper skills. Third, his high place was blown up while he was on it, and it was only thanks to his skill and the countless hours he'd thrown into training that saved him. He didn't believe in luck.

Fourth, he lost Natasha the same time he lost his vantage point. That was probably the worst part.

While the fires raged, he rescued people from the burning buildings. When the fires finally went out. it was thanks to thunderstorm that raged and roared around him like he had personally offended it. Finally it let loose and rained. It came down in torrents, streaming down his face and turning the ashes into black mud, turning the white, black, and red charred boards that hissed when the rain hit them into soggy, sooty black timbers that were weak.

And then, the rain stopped, but the storm continued, load crashes of thunder that sounded like they were inches from his head delaying the light of the dawn. Cracks of lightning worked as his flashlight as he stumbled through the entire town looking for Natasha. His hair was plastered to his head and his muscles burned and he was coated from head to toe in the wet, muddy ash and grime and sweat and blood mingled with the rain and streamed down his face.

It took four hours, methodically searching through the entire city, but he found her eventually, pinned underneath four large wooden beams, soggy and sooty and blackened and she was out cold and he had to haul the boards off her without any assistance, and after much cursing and sweating and hundreds of splinters, he got them off her. She still wouldn't wake up. He huffed in exasperation and glared at her unconscious form. He took her pulse, which was fast and strong, and didn't wake her up like it normally would've. She had no major puncture wounds, severly broken limbs or burns, or anything bad that he could really see. But then again she was probably on her fourth sleepless day by now so it didn't really surprise him. Agent or not, after seventy-two hours without sleep Natasha didn't really fall asleep anymore so much as she passed out and couldn't be woken.

Fucking _now_, of all times.

So he gritted his teeth and slid an arm underneath her knees and around her back, and hoisted her into his arms. Clint took a moment to concentrate after her head fell against his chest, forcing down anger at whoever decided to drop a _building_ on her, concern and fear for how limp she was, and yes, okay, maybe some desire to have her in his arms and her head against his chest, without resistance for once. Sure, he'd carried her plenty of times- she tended to get hurt a lot- but always she'd been stiff or trying to free herself, insisting she didn't need his help.

She barely weighed anything to him, and he'd always been secretly worried that she didn't eat enough. Clint prided himself on the knowledge that she'd actually let him know what she weighed, probably the most personal thing she'd ever told him, sadly. She had caught him glancing at her plate one day. "I weight a hundred and fifteen pounds, Barton. I'm perfectly healthy. Stop worrying."

So maybe him worrying about her wasn't as much of a secret as he'd like.

Clint doggedly worked his way through the debris and sludge and the rain and tried not to flinch at each crash of thunder. The rain combined with his experiences with storms made him want to cut and run to the nearest shelter, to get out of the rain, but he kept on going toward the safe house.

His legs got impossibly more tired, his lungs burned even more, and his arms shook a little harder the second the cabin came into view. Clint knew he probably should've eaten something on the Quinjet out here, but he honestly couldn't eat on a plane without throwing up, and his instincts- which he had learned to trust every time- had been ringing the second they stepped inside the safe house and he would never go into action on a full stomach if he could help it. So he hadn't had anything to eat in going on ten hours, last he checked, and he could feel the exhaustion and dizziness starting to set in.

It was all he could do to stumble into the safe house, lay Natasha down on the bed less gently then he would've liked and collapse face first on the other side.


	3. Chapter 3

When Natasha woke up, she needed water. Knew it in the pounding of her temples, the dryness of her mouth, the pulse of blood in her ears. So she got up quietly as ever and slunk into the kitchenette, and pulled out a water bottle. The fridge didn't work very well, barely cooling the water, but the drastic drop in the temperature had done the job. It was a extremely foggy and cloudy day, with gusty winds and the rain cooled the temperature even further. Nothing compared to Russia, but the goose bumps rose on her skin all the same.

She went and sat at the counter and absentmindedly sipped the water bottle, waiting for Clint to wake up. She listened to the howling storm and didn't hear Clint get up. He was suddenly just _there _getting his water bottle out, and Natasha jumped. He smirks at her, and returns to the main room, and she watches his ass as he goes.

And then she realizes what she's doing.

Fuck, that man is distracting when he's only got his boxers on.

Natasha can't pretend that, once she wasn't trying to kill him, she never noticed his musculature. It was almost impossible to not notice him because of it. She saw the way the eyes of every female at SHIELD watched him as he moved, watched him in the halls, in the gym, in the cafeteria, in the debriefing room. Everywhere. It gave her the urge to glare at those people and wrap her arms around Clint.

Natasha can't pinpoint exactly why. She's never been good with putting a name to emotions.

It's definitely not jealously, because the Black Widow doesn't get jealous.

She takes her water back into the main room, where Clint is now cleaning his bow. Meticulously, his focus completely on his beloved bow, his infinite sniper patience employed. She stands and watches him, half-aware he knows she's there, mostly focused on his arms and, more importantly, the muscles that ripple in them with each sure stroke of the cloth he's using.

He's sets his bow down after what feels like an eternity and collapses it. He stands and puts his hands on his hips and looks her over.

"Coulson said he's got clean-up under control. We are to stay here and be good little agents. Extraction is in twelve hours," he informs her with boyish cheekiness. She loves that.

No she doesn't. She's the Black fucking Widow goddammit.

So she nonchalantly crosses the room and picks up her gun. She smoothly unloads and reloads it with practiced ease, then flips on the safety and tosses it on the nightstand. She flops back on the bed and looks at him. "So what do we do now?"

He arches an eyebrow suggestively at her.

"Okay," she blurts before she can stop herself.

He looks for all the world a kid in a candystore. "Really?"

Instead of being the trained professional she is, instead of doing the_ right_ thing and shooting him down with a 'No, you idiot.' she nods. Fuck professionalism. Fuck SHIELD. They can all go screw themselves. She doesn't care anymore.

And it's the best decision she's ever made.


	4. Chapter 4

"I can't feel my legs," Natasha mumbled into her pillow. Clint's bare chest vibrates with a low chuckle.

They both lie on the bed, covered in a light sheen of sweat, no clothes to be found. Clint face up, Natasha face down, companionably listening to the sounds of the city repairing itself. The air is warm, almost stiflingly so, and Natasha is so glad she listened to the crazy part of her brain and not the professional one this time.

Clint is just marveling in the fact that what he considered to be just as likely as an alien invasion just occurred. "That was the greatest thing that's ever happened. Ever," he announces. Natasha giggles, an unrestrained, care-free sound he's only heard when they're alone getting shitfaced drunk after a particularly horrible mission, usually with the aid of cheap vodka and his crappy kitchen on the Helicarrier. He loves that sound.

They'd both be content to lie there forever, swimming in a sea of hormones and light drowsiness, listening to the sounds of a city they helped around them. Just the two of them. Honestly, feelings aside, they're the best people possible for each other. They get it. But, as always, they know deep in the back of their minds that they can't do that, because they have jobs helping repay deep, deep debts. Possibly the only jobs in the world that use their skills and help wipe out the red. The sad thing is, they have to put more red in to get the old red out. Clint and Natasha both tell that part of their brain to shut the fuck up and enjoy it.

Then of course, a sharp rap on the door jolts them both into action.

Their mad scramble around the room, yanking on their clothes and weapons and armor, takes all of two minutes, and is completely silent. Natasha powers up her bracelets and takes a defensive stance while Clint cautiously looks through the peephole. After a second he relaxes somewhat and opens the door.

Coulson is standing there, two SHIELD agents at his flanks.

"Extraction is here. We couldn't reach you."

"We lost our comms," Clint says lamely. Coulson presses his lips together: His version of smiling. "We assumed. Get your gear. We'll be waiting in the helicopter."

With that, he turns on his heel and leaves.

Clint glances at Natasha and Natasha glances at Clint. "I think he may have figured it out..." Clint whispered conspiratorially. Before she could stop herself, Natasha actually giggled, _again_, and nodded. "He always does," she whispered back in the same tone.

They grab their already packed stuff and walk out the door side by side. Natasha feels increasingly childish as they glances and suppressed smiles continue on both ends. It's kind of nice and she's praying to any higher power that the other agents don't notice and that Coulson- who's surely noticed by now- keeps it to himself.

When they get back they both head to the debriefing room, where Director Fury looks like he wants to tear out his nonexistent hair. "Both of you. The gym. The range. Somewhere."

This is typically what happens. Though it was drilled into both agents that you always always _always _go get debriefed first, Nick always sends them away to blow off post-mission steam for exactly two hours and ten minutes. It gives them time to regroup, and gives him time to recuperate and calm down because of their frequent transgressions they committed whilst completely said missions.

They have a routine. After one mission they'll go to the gym, the next to the sparring mats, the one after that's they'll head to the range, and repeat. But this time, without saying a word, they head to Clint's room and blow off steam in... Other ways.

They hate to do so, but they spend only forty-five minutes with each other, then head to the gym, because they know they need to. Clint ends up on the high tech agility course, and Natasha ends up beating the shit out of a punching bag, attacking it like it personally offended her. Feeling like all the pent up anger and frustration and yes, fear, are flowing out of her body and through her fists. It's great.

They shower, separately , because both know that now that they've crossed this line if they shower together they very well might never emerge, and ten minutes later they're sitting in the debriefing room with one much calmer, albeit still furious, Director Nicholas Fury of SHIELD. He pinches the bridge of his nose, then says, "So Coulson and I have decided that, unless the world is depending on it, you two are never going back to Budapest again."

"Just like Budapest all over again!"

She remembers the adrenaline, the two kids, the fight, the whole world going to shit while being rocked by explosions, the civilians. Quite applicable to the New York situation, actually. Clint understands how she would relate the two.

He, however, cannot agree. He remembers the sex, crossing that line, and quite possibly the worst chewing out Nick Fury has ever given them. The only thing that could possibly relate to New York in anyway is how he had once mused that Natasha actually wanting him in any way was similar in chance to an alien invasion. If the flying whale is anything to go by, then yes, both things he once thought possible have actually come to pass.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently."


End file.
